


Meep, Myself, & I

by supersalad



Category: The Muppet Show
Genre: Clones, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Unapologetic Use of Puns, Weird UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22214788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersalad/pseuds/supersalad
Summary: Welcome again to Muppet Labs, where the future is being made today! Well, folks, it's always quite the pickle when one's clones reappear in one's life and stir up trouble. Fortunately, we at Muppet Labs have experience with this very matter - just ask Beaker here - and we know exactly hownotto handle it.
Relationships: Beaker/Dr. Bunsen Honeydew
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	Meep, Myself, & I

**Author's Note:**

> I always wondered what happened to [all those Beaker clones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQj2NP25TIo). Probably not this.

Bunsen's eyes, or rather his glasses, had to be deceiving him. He could've sworn he saw a familiar tuft of orange hair on the other side of the cafe, sticking out above the crowd. But that was impossible. Beaker was sequestered inside the lab at the moment, after their Thermonuclear Sinus Decongestant had backfired spectacularly.

Of course, that had meant Beaker missing their lunch break, but his faithful assistant understood there were sacrifices to be made in the name of science. All he'd asked Bunsen for was a coffee, anyway. Now if only Bunsen could remember what his usual was. He should've known; he ordered it for him every time they went out for lunch.

But now he was sure he heard meeping across the room. He looked again. Yes, that was definitely Beaker in the corner, lounging around on his phone, in a blatant shirking of his duties. And Bunsen certainly had something to say about that.

He strode over to the table. "Beaker, what are you doing here?"

Beaker nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound of Bunsen's voice, but Bunsen figured it served him right.

Beaker's wide eyes traveled from Bunsen's hands, pressing down on the table in front of him, up to his face. He took him in as if he hadn't seen him in years. "Dr. Honeydew?"

That gave Bunsen pause. Beaker never called him that. Not that Bunsen minded at all; he rather enjoyed the way it sounded coming from Beaker. But there were more urgent matters at hand. "You know you're not allowed outside the lab yet. You're too radioactive."

Beaker covered the receiver of his phone. "I'll explain in a minute. This is a really important call-"

"Since when do you wear a suit? Though I must say, it does look very flattering on you." Bunsen helped himself to the seat opposite Beaker at the tiny table, leaving Beaker with nowhere to put his long legs that didn't involve them touching Bunsen's. Again, not that Bunsen minded. But it made Beaker even jumpier. "And did you get a haircut?"

Beaker waved a hand at him, trying to shoo him away. All he managed to do was knock over his coffee cup, directly onto the charger his phone was plugged into. He yelped as the electricity sizzled through him, his eyes lighting up and every head in the cafe turning to stare.

Bunsen couldn't help but snicker. "I like the look, Beaker. It's very current."

"Ha ha." Beaker heaved a sigh, then meeped into his phone, "I'm going to have to call you back."

He hung up, shaking his head at Bunsen. "You haven't changed at all, Dr. Honeydew. Stuff like this is why we all ganged up on you."

"Beaker, what on earth are you talking about?"

"I'm not your assistant! I'm Beaker Number 8! One of the clones from your stupid Copying Machine!"

Bunsen flinched. This certainly wasn't the first time an invention had come back to haunt him, but for it to be in the form of Beaker - or _a_ Beaker who wasn't quite _his_ Beaker - was more than a little unnerving.

He tried to regain his composure. "Ah, yes, that was a doozy, wasn't it? Didn't we send you all off to travel the world?"

"You did. I'm just here for today on business. Trying to be, anyway."

"What about the others?" Bunsen glanced furtively behind him, half-expecting a troupe of Beakers to pop up and start chasing him again.

Beaker Number 8 fought back a laugh as Bunsen tried to hide how shaken he was. "Don't worry. We all ended up in different places, doing odd jobs. We're still trying to figure ourselves out, I guess. Even though we're all Beakers. If that makes any sense."

"Not really."

"It doesn't really make sense to us, either. Being a clone is kind of a constant identity crisis. But you learn to live with it." His phone started ringing again. "Sorry, I have to take this. Tell Beaker Number 1 I said meep."

"Wait. I have one question," Bunsen leaned across the table and took his arm. "What is it you're drinking? I can't remember Beaker's usual."

Beaker Number 8 looked incredulous. "You can't remember a plain black coffee?"

"Ah! That's it. Thank you, dear." He patted Beaker Number 8's arm and got up to get back in line.

* * *

Beaker was exactly where Bunsen had left him in the lab, perched on a table, panting and fanning himself with a notebook full of calculations. He had a pulsating glow all over, but his eyes were especially vibrant, and they flickered as he looked over at Bunsen.

Bunsen paused in the doorway; sometimes he had to stop and admire the results of his experiments, even the accidental ones. "How's my little nuclear reactor?"

"I think I'm overheating again. Did you remember to get the coffee iced?"

Bunsen looked down at the cup in his hand. No, he hadn't. "Oh well, it's nothing that a splash of liquid nitrogen can't fix."

As he donned a pair of gloves and poured what was definitely more than a splash into the cup, he said breezily, "You'll never guess who I saw at the cafe."

Coughing through the dense fog rising from his coffee cup, Beaker tried to ask "who?", but it came out as an unintelligible meep.

"Why, yes, in fact, it was you. How'd you guess?" Bunsen fired up his radiation detector and braced Beaker with a hand on his shoulder. "Except it was a you that was wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase, and making a very important phone call. Too important to talk to me, apparently."

"Oh! That must've been Number 8," Beaker's face got even brighter for a moment, but then his frown deepened. "I didn't know he was going to be in town today. I used to be so good at keeping in touch with myselves."

Bunsen leaned in, holding the radiation detector against the back of Beaker's neck, waiting for the reading. Beaker heard a little "hmm" of mild concern in his ear, and despite the radioactive heat he was bathed in, he shivered. His eyes flickered again.

"Hold still, Beakie. I can't get an accurate count if you're squirming around," Bunsen chided him. "You didn't tell me you kept in touch with yourselves this whole time."

"Where did you think all those postcards on our storage cabinet came from?" Beaker asked.

"I thought that was your way of saying you wanted a vacation."

Every Beaker had sent him postcards over the years, and he'd decorated the lab's storage cabinet with them. They'd journeyed far and wide, from the Australian Outback to the beaches of Bermuda; Beakers had seen the Great Pyramids, kissed the Blarney Stone, befriended penguins in Antarctica. The notes written on the back were long and rambly, like Beaker was talking to himself - which he kind of was.

He looked wistfully at them. Was it possible to miss himself?

Noticing Beaker's expression, Bunsen suggested, "Why don't you invite them all here for a reunion?"

"That's a nice idea." But Bunsen never had an idea that was just _nice_. Beaker glanced at him out of the corner of his fluorescent eyes. "You're not thinking of doing some kind of experiment on us, are you?"

"Why would you ever think that?" Bunsen tutted. "Now let's get your gamma rays measured before your nose falls off again."

* * *

Beaker had never heard so many clone puns in his life. And he was pretty sure none of the other Beakers had, either. But Fozzie had written a whole set for the reunion party.

"So I asked Beaker who was coming to this party, and his answer was _me, me, me, me, me_..."

At that, a chorus of high-pitched, meeping groans came from every corner of the room. But Beaker had to laugh, taking in the whole scene around him. Kermit had been generous enough to host the party at the theater - even after that unfortunate lunchtime mix-up involving Muppet Labs' new World's Hottest Pepper.

The Beaker who worked as a fisherman in Iceland was attempting to learn the art of fish boomeranging from Lew, but each one was coming back and hitting this Beaker in the face. The Beaker who was a DJ in Ibiza was remixing Animal's drum solos. The mountain guide Beaker was astonishing Gonzo with tales of his treks up Mount Everest. Beaker was happy to see himself - himselves? - having such a good time.

But above anyone else, Bunsen was having the time of his life among the bevy of Beakers. He made his way across the room, zapping one Beaker with several thousand volts of electricity, before pulling another Beaker onto the dance floor with him, before helping yet another Beaker revive the Beaker who'd been zapped. He was last seen greeting the sommelier Beaker from Paris with an " _enchanté_ " and a kiss on both cheeks, then proceeding to practice his terrible French on him.

Beaker sighed and took refuge at the punch bowl, picking up the ladle to pour himself another drink. But he dropped it with a clatter when Bunsen sidled up to him out of nowhere, looking flagrantly flirtatious. "Hello there, handsome. Can I get your number?"

"One," Beaker replied flatly. He suspected Bunsen had been using that line on every Beaker he came across, thinking he was clever.

"I don't think we've had a chance to converse yet. Tell me, where do you live? What's your occupation?"

"I live in L.A., and I'm the assistant to the self-styled Chief Scientist in Charge of Everything." That same scientist was busy looking him up and down, so Beaker went on. "He tortures me every day, in every way imaginable, and I don't even know if he can see what he's doing to me."

"That sounds dreadful," Bunsen took Beaker's hand in his and patted it sympathetically. "I can't imagine. You know, I treat my own darling little assistant like gold."

Beaker nearly spit out his punch in disbelief. "You do?" Although he had witnessed Bunsen turn gold into cottage cheese, so maybe the comparison wasn't that far off.

"Yes, indeed. Wouldn't dream of harming a hair on his fluffy orange head." 

Beaker was about to reply that his hair had been on fire twice last week. But Bunsen's fingers had started to graze up and down his arm, and the only sound that came out of him was a shiver.

Bunsen leaned in dangerously close. "Would you like me to show you our lab? We've made some exciting upgrades since the last time you were there, popping out of that Copying Machine. Let me give you a tour."

This was getting out of hand. Beaker had to put a stop to this before his curiosity got the best of him. "Bunsen, it's _me_."

Bunsen's hands fell away. He lifted up his glasses and looked Beaker over again. "Oh, it's you, Beakie. Of course." 

"Don't sound so disappointed," Beaker muttered. But he realized, with a relief he couldn't explain, that he hadn't heard Bunsen call any of the others Beakie. And that had to count for something.

He fidgeted with his sleeve, where Bunsen's hand had just been, searching for a way to change the subject. "Do you happen to know where Beaker Number 3 is? The mountain guide? I haven't seen him in a while."

"Ah, yes, I was explaining the prototype for our Anti-Gravity Boots to him, and he was more than happy to give them a whirl."

At that moment, they heard a knock on the window and a panicked meep. They turned around to see a Beaker floating past, desperately searching for something to cling to as he rose higher and higher into the sky.

Beaker turned back to Bunsen, aghast. "Get him down right now!"

"Fine, fine." Bunsen darted off, his lab coat billowing behind him.

Meanwhile, Fozzie was still trying his jokes on the crowd. "I want to tell you folks about the time I cloned myself - because this bears repeating! Ahhhh!"

Statler and Waldorf were passing by, so Beaker crept closer to the window to avoid being caught in their curmudgeonly crosshairs. Statler nudged Waldorf and said, "If I had a clone, I'd bring him to this party."

"Why would you do that?"

"So I could give all these jokes four thumbs down!"

"You old fool, you can't even give one thumb down with your arthritis!"

Beaker rolled his eyes and glanced out the window again, only to see Bunsen and another Beaker holding out a net, while Beaker Number 3 came tumbling out of the sky in freefall. Beaker viscerally remembered _that_ feeling. That half-second gasp of soaring towards earth, that moment of forgetting that he was going to have to land somewhere.

And land somewhere this Beaker did. Except Bunsen hadn't estimated quite right, and this Beaker ended up missing the net and landing right on top of the other Beaker, crushing him. Bunsen put a hand to his mouth, and whether that accompanied a half-suppressed snicker or an "oh dear," Beaker couldn't tell.

Beaker's nose bumped up against the window as he strained to see as much as he could. Bunsen was leading both Beakers back inside, looking awfully pleased with himself at having one on each arm. He held Beaker Number 3 steady as he stumbled in the Anti-Gravity Boots. The Beaker who'd been crushed, Number 5, was frantically meeping as he clutched his head, and Bunsen patted his shoulder and spoke to him.

With a twinge, Beaker hoped he wasn't calling him Beakie. Was it possible to be jealous of himself? Nothing about his relationship with Bunsen had ever made sense, but never before to the point where Beaker's own existence didn't make sense anymore.

Once that uncanny image was out of sight, Beaker slumped against the window. The knot in his stomach tightened, reminding him of the time he'd fallen bodily into their Necktie Knotter and came out a perfect half-windsor. Maybe he just needed to mingle some more. It was his party, after all.

The sommelier Beaker was in the middle of a very one-sided conversation with Miss Piggy about her latest trip to Paris. He excused himself for a moment and tapped Beaker's arm, whispering, "He called me excruciatingly cute. Is that a good thing? Am I supposed to like it?"

Beaker felt just as bewildered as this Beaker looked. "I still don't know what to make of 'hauntingly attractive.'"

Beaker had gotten "very cute" plenty of times, along with some other bizarre choices of adjectives and adverbs. But why didn't Bunsen ever find Beaker excruciatingly anything? It hardly seemed fair, given how constantly excruciating Beaker found him.

The volcanologist Beaker was at the buffet, helping the Swedish Chef with a lava cake emergency. He grabbed Beaker just in time to shield him from another chocolatey eruption, then he whispered, "What's with the snickering? Why does he do that?"

Beaker threw his shoulders up in an immense shrug. "I wish I knew."

How was he supposed to figure Bunsen out when he knew himself even less than ever? Trying to answer that question was giving him a headache, and he was pretty sure there was still a bottle of Instant Headache Cure in the lab.

* * *

Beaker stood in the doorway of the lab, his mouth hanging open. It took several seconds before he could even comprehend what he was seeing - Bunsen had his arms around Beaker Number 5, and they were kissing.

They hadn't heard Beaker open the door. But they did hear his gasp. The whole theater probably did.

Bunsen turned to him, and his glasses nearly flew off his face. "Beakie-" He let go of the Beaker in his arms, dropping him to the floor with a thud. "Oh dear- Beaker-" He looked back and forth between the two Beakers, not knowing which to tend to first.

While Bunsen dithered, Beaker went over to Beaker Number 5 and pulled him to his feet. Beaker Number 5 ducked into his collar as far as he could go, meeping out flustered "I'm sorry"s and "I shouldn't have"s. Bunsen couldn't make out the rapid, hushed meeps they exchanged, but he saw the look of understanding that passed between them. Then Number 5 left the original Beaker to confront Bunsen alone.

But all Beaker could do was stand aimlessly in the middle of the lab, his brain short-circuiting, meeping half-formed sentences of "what were you- why would you- how could you-" at Bunsen.

Bunsen instinctively reached out to place his hand on Beaker's shoulder, then thought better of it. In fact, none of his usual methods for calming Beaker down seemed like they'd be particularly fruitful. So he busied himself with smoothing out his lab coat and straightening his tie, waiting for Beaker to run out of meeps. Which took longer than he thought it would. 

He decided to try a new approach. "Forgive me for kissing you."

His sorry still came out as a command. Apologies weren't his forte, to say the least.

"That was my clone! Not _me_!" Beaker gestured wildly at the door Beaker Number 5 had just gone out of.

Bunsen was at a loss; all he knew was that he'd somehow made things worse. "Then forgive me for - for not kissing you - ah, I mean, that is to say-"

"That's not even what the issue is!" Beaker spluttered.

"Then what is it?"

"You really have to ask?" Beaker took a step forward so that he loomed over Bunsen, staring down at him. He was fuming, his hair seeming to stand on end even more than ever, like a fire Bunsen didn't know how to put out. It was as though all the clones that had once chased him had finally caught up to him.

Beaker clenched his fist around Bunsen's tie. "Just - _you_! You, this whole night, running around, doing whatever you want with all of my clones! They're not your _playthings_ , Bunsen! Isn't one of us enough for you?"

He let go of Bunsen's tie and looked down at his hand. "Is this glitter? What were you doing with the DJ Beaker?"

"I was just helping him make some technological improvements to his turntables. That's all."

Beaker made an exasperated noise and wiped his hand on Bunsen's lab coat. "I came up here for our headache cure, and now I really need it."

Bunsen took the opportunity to slide away from Beaker as carefully as he could. "Let me get some for you."

Beaker took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. From deep inside their storage cabinet, he heard Bunsen. "Oh dear, I'm afraid we're all out. If you're looking for stress relief, though, we still have our Automated Acupuncture Machine in here."

Beaker recoiled, vividly remembering how that demonstration had gone. "No, thanks."

"No matter. I can whip up some more Instant Headache Cure in a jiffy, and I'll bring you a dose once it's ready." Bunsen started rummaging through their extensive supply of hazardous materials and lining up bottles on the table.

Beaker shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

"I insist. Besides, it'll keep me out of trouble," Bunsen gave a shrug and a weak smile, the closest to sheepish Beaker had ever seen him. Not counting the time their Pet Converter had gone really, really wrong.

He wasn't about to leave Bunsen to work in the lab alone. "If you're going to do it, then I'm going to help you."

"Don't you want to get back to your party?"

But Beaker was already flinging open cabinets and getting out equipment. He practically slammed the burner down on the table, waiting for Bunsen to remind him how expensive that was, but Bunsen didn't dare.

Beaker cranked the knob up as high as it could go. "You can't do the combustion by yourself. You need me."

Bunsen couldn't argue with that. So they got to work.

Bunsen was particularly proud of this invention. Patent-rejected, FDA-disapproved, and when they'd tried to present it at a conference, they were kicked out for creating a minor explosion in the hotel lobby. But Beaker swore it worked, and that was all that mattered.

The procedure necessitated closeness between scientist and assistant, as so many of theirs did. Beaker knew there was no escaping it. The first step alone required reaching his arm around Bunsen to hold the funnel in place while Bunsen slowly poured in the solution.

He didn't understand how Bunsen's hands could remain so steady, or how he could always carry on as if everything was peachy. Everything Beaker touched shook wildly in his hands. Half of him hoped Bunsen didn't notice, half of him hoped he did.

His hands shook when he stood at Bunsen's side to measure out reagents, and they shook when he picked up the test tube rack and said, "Let me know when you're ready for more nitric acid."

Out of habit, Bunsen patted his back in acknowledgment. The scene Beaker had walked in on flashed in his mind: one of Bunsen's hands in his hair, the other on the small of his back. But that wasn't really him. He didn't know what that felt like. 

He pulled away from Bunsen and started furiously shaking the test tube he was holding. The procedure only called for a gentle swirl, but he wasn't in any kind of gentle mood.

Bunsen called over to him. "Oh, Beakie, you brought me the wrong beaker. I need the other beaker."

At that, the test tube slipped from Beaker's fingertips, flying over his shoulder and shattering behind him. He cried out as the solution started bubbling on the floor with an ominous hiss.

In a frenzy, he grabbed the first thing he set eyes on, the broom, hurrying to clean the spill up before it ate away at the linoleum. But it was too late - smoke was already rising from a sizable hole in the floor. He knelt down, scrambling to keep shards of glass from falling into Beauregard's closet below.

"Beaker, be careful," Bunsen admonished him, rushing over.

Beauregard awoke from his snooze and looked up at them. "Hey there, fellas. Say, is there some sort of party going on tonight?"

Beaker glanced up at Bunsen and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh no. We forgot to invite Bo."

But Bunsen was peering at the deep cut on Beaker's hand. "Beaker, your hand - you can't go on working like that."

It figured. Beaker could catch fire in front of him and he wouldn't notice. Or be standing in front of him at the punch bowl and he wouldn't notice. But he'd notice an injury as ordinary as this, before Beaker even did.

Bunsen lifted him up by the arm and dragged him over to the sink. "Come on now, let's get you patched up."

This was right where Beaker Number 5 and Bunsen had been kissing. The gauze was still out on the counter, evidence of what had led up to it. It was all too easy for Beaker to imagine - Beaker Number 5 leaning down for Bunsen to bandage his head, their faces getting overwhelmingly close. But he couldn't think about what happened next without his insides seizing up, tense and hot.

"Bunsen, I'm fine, please, you don't have to-"

"Give me your hand, Beaker." Bunsen kept reaching for it, and Beaker kept wrestling it away from him. "You know, I didn't have this problem with your duplicate."

Despite Beaker glaring at him as though he'd just dumped salt into his wound, Bunsen went on. "He was being a dear and helping me bring down the _other_ other Beaker, and he got a few scrapes in the process. But he was very sweet about the whole thing."

"That's because he doesn't have to put up with you every day."

"He said he was happy just to be out in some sunshine, the poor lad. I do hope you won't blame him for any of this." Bunsen finally grabbed Beaker's hand from behind his back and held on tight. "He works at a research station in Antarctica. It's a very lonely life."

"I know that. Unlike you, I can tell us apart." Beaker snapped. "And I wouldn't blame myself for-"

Beaker caught himself before he finished the sentence, but it still hung in midair between them, unspoken. _I wouldn't blame myself for kissing you_. He turned his head away. He could feel Bunsen's gaze on him, but he couldn't bring himself to look directly into his glasses.

Bunsen cleared his throat gently. "I thought you said I kissed your clone, not _you_."

"You know what I mean! It was me, but not _me_ me."

"Well, now you're just meeping incoherently."

"No, I'm not! I'm trying to explain - _ow!_ " he winced as Bunsen pressed a cloth soaked with antiseptic against his cut. He tried to yank his hand away, but it was a losing battle, like always.

Beaker's hands were trembling, but his fingers curled naturally into Bunsen's, muscle memory after so many times of being dragged on stage just like this. Bunsen took his time wrapping the gauze around Beaker's hand, trying to prolong the moment before he let go.

Bunsen sighed. "Who knew that a simple Copying Machine would cause such problems?"

"I did! I tried to tell you when Bo brought it backstage, but you never listen to me-"

Beauregard's voice floated up from the floor below. "You called?"

"No, no, we're fine up here, Mr. Beauregard. Go on and join the festivities," Bunsen said, unrolling a throw rug over the hole in the floor, which he kept handy for just this purpose. He turned back to Beaker.

"What can I do, Beakie? I can't change what happened. We've tried time travel, and all that did was make the clock in here go haywire." He glanced up at the wall. "I keep meaning to fix that."

Beaker wasn't going to admit it, but he kind of liked the clock the way it was. It was theirs. A testament not just to that failed foray into time travel, but to everything that went wrong in this lab, and to everything that Beaker knew, deep down, he wouldn't change even if he could.

Bunsen finished bandaging his hand, but Beaker let it linger in his. He didn't have an answer to Bunsen's question of what he could do - of what either of them could do, except get back to work. The future wasn't going to make itself, after all, and neither was the Instant Headache Cure that was still boiling away on the table.

Beaker froze. It wasn't supposed to be doing that. "Did I leave the burner on?"

His answer came in the form of an explosion that rocked the entire theater.

* * *

It was well after midnight when Beaker made his way back to the party, wheezing and charred, the chemical fumes practically rolling off him. By then, no one was left but the Beakers. They were sprawled out on the floor, meeping amongst themselves about their plans for tomorrow.

They didn't ask what he'd been doing or why. They didn't need to. They just cleared a space for him to sit, and he collapsed there, meeping something about how Bunsen had cured his headache. 

Apart from one Beaker putting out his still-smoldering sleeve for him, they just let him be. Anyone else seeing Beaker in this post-Bunsen state would shake their head at him in a mix of pity and judgment. Or they'd ask him _why_ , and he didn't have an answer. No one really believed him when he said that he was okay.

It was nice to have someone else around to understand, even if that someone else was himself.

* * *

Beaker never thought a day of hanging out with himself would be fun, until now. There was nothing lonely about it; in fact, it was quite a crowd.

The morning started with every Beaker's alarm going off at the same time, and every Beaker hitting snooze repeatedly. Beaker sang in the shower as loud as he wanted, knowing the other Beakers wouldn't judge him, because they all did it too. He learned that all Beakers meep in their sleep, and that all Beakers have impeccable taste in stripey socks. He tried to cook breakfast for each Beaker, but each attempt went up in flames in its own special way.

Luckily, they all agreed on where to go out for brunch instead. They all ordered something different, but shared everything with each other, because they all had the same tastes. And they all fainted in unison when they got the bill.

They finished each other's meeps. They laughed to each other about the stares they got as they roamed Los Angeles. They had a dance party in Beaker's apartment, and though they all had equally terrible dance moves, they somehow synced together perfectly. The other Beakers took his hands, spinning him around, until all the Beakers blurred together in his mind.

And Beaker finally felt at peace with all these variations of himself. Because in seeing all of himselves, everything that was different and everything that stayed the same, he felt more himself than ever now. He couldn't explain it, but he didn't have to. He contained multitudes.

* * *

The last of the Beakers to depart on their flight was Number 5 - trips back to Antarctica weren't the easiest to arrange. He and Beaker sat in the airport bar, running up their tabs on drinks. The DJ Beaker had offered them something more potent before he left, but Beaker declined, since he already had enough encounters with unpredictable substances in the lab.

The Antarctica Beaker stared at his paper-thin suitcases, fresh from Muppet Labs' Luggage Compressor. "So... how do these un-compress?"

"Uh... we didn't exactly get that far in the process," Beaker said. "But I'm sure Bunsen can come up with something. He does kind of owe you one, after..."

Beaker traced his finger along the condensation on his glass. The question had been on the tip of his tongue all day, and both Beakers knew it. Finally he asked. "What was it like?"

Beaker Number 5 jumped a little and stammered out a few meeps, trying to find the right words. But it turned out he didn't need any. Just thinking about the kiss made a shiver run through him, like a faint but pleasant crackle of electricity. Beaker had never seen it from the outside before - was he always that obvious? - but it told him all he needed to know. If Bunsen could make Beaker Number 5 feel like that, then he could make Beaker himself feel like that, too - could actually make him feel _good_ for once.

He'd been afraid of that answer. He'd been afraid of what he was feeling now, the curiosity prickling in his nerves at the thought of kissing Bunsen.

He shifted in his seat. "You were supposed to tell me you hated it. So I could stop wanting to do it."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he shrunk into his collar. He was barely prepared to admit it to himself, much less say it out loud to himself. Next to him, Beaker Number 5 had shrunk into his parka, too.

They simultaneously elbowed each other hard in the ribs to force each other's faces back out. When they emerged, their expressions were mirror images, one Beaker embarrassed by how much he'd liked the kiss, the other Beaker equally as embarrassed by how much he _would_ like it.

They both burst out laughing at each other - at themselves. Beaker suddenly felt a rush of affection for himself that he wasn't used to feeling. He hadn't known it was even possible.

Antarctica Beaker took his hand, like he had when they'd been dancing together earlier. "I'm glad we're not fighting over this."

"I wouldn't want to fight myself," Beaker laughed. "I think somehow we'd both lose."

"Besides, there's probably nothing he'd love more than knowing two Beakers were fighting over him."

"True. I'm sure he'd just be _set aquiver_ ," Beaker put on his best Bunsen impression, right down to those flourishy hand gestures he always did. Both Beakers doubled over laughing.

"Speaking of which," Antarctica Beaker tapped Beaker's arm, his laughter growing coy. "He really liked it when I called him Dr. Honeydew. He said he likes how it sounds in meeps."

Beaker choked on his drink. Somehow, he wasn't surprised that was one of Bunsen's strange predilections. Beaker never called him that, but he felt that curiosity tugging at his nerves again, thinking maybe he should try it sometime.

"You should try it sometime," Antarctica Beaker said.

"I was just thinking that."

There was so much about Bunsen that Beaker kept to himself, so much that he held inside. All the little things he noticed every day, and all the big revelations that had slowly dawned on him over the years. Now that he had himself to share them with, they came pouring out of him.

Their World's Hottest Pepper demonstration, when Beaker's mouth was in searing pain and he'd had the fleeting, crazed thought of kissing Bunsen right there on stage, purely for revenge. The week before that, when Bunsen had to carry him in his arms after an old can of All-Purpose Tenderizer had fallen on him in the storage closet.

That impossibly bubbly enthusiasm, that bounce in his voice whenever he showed off their latest creation to the world, despite popular demand. Everything about him that Beaker secretly found brilliant, contrary to popular opinion.

How Bunsen believed that the only way to find things out was the hard way - and Beaker might be starting to believe it, too, sitting here at a bar telling his world-traveling clone how badly he wanted to kiss the scientist who'd cloned him in the first place.

"To Dr. Bunsen Honeydew," Beaker sighed and raised his glass. "Can't live with him, can't live without him." And for all the cloned Beakers, the latter was literally true.

The two Beakers clinked their glasses together and drank deeply.

* * *

Beaker's feet were planted firmly on the ceiling of the lab. No matter how hard he struggled to get himself right-side-up, the malfunctioning Anti-Gravity Boots were too strong.

Bunsen watched nonchalantly, jotting down observations as the boots had their way with his flailing assistant. "Nothing like a rush of blood to your head to wake you up on a Monday morning, right, Beakie?"

Beaker finally gave up, letting his arms flop down above his head. He let out one more yelp as his lab coat came tumbling over his face.

From below, he heard a telltale snicker. Even though Beaker couldn't see him, he could _feel_ Bunsen looking him up and down, or rather, down and up. He could only imagine what kinds of observations Bunsen was making now.

Beaker caught his breath enough to ask, "Can I come down yet?"

"Hold on, hold on. I think I've nearly figured out the problem."

"What is it?"

"Well... mainly that you're upside down."

Beaker made a mental note to take back what he'd said to Antarctica Beaker about Bunsen being brilliant.

He dangled helplessly from the ceiling, listening to Bunsen's pencil scratching against paper, until Bunsen decided he'd gathered enough observations. "Ready, my dear?"

Beaker meeped in the affirmative. He reached out his hand, waiting for Bunsen to pull him back down to solid ground. But nothing happened. Instead, Beaker heard the click of Bunsen's remote control turning off the boots, and with that, he crashed face-first onto the table beneath him.

Bunsen's voice came from above him now. "I could make an anti-gravity joke here, but I don't think it'd land very well."

"Ha ha," Beaker groaned as he sat up. He pulled his lab coat back down over his clothes, and he checked his nose to make sure it wasn't flattened. He stretched his legs out on the table and stared at the boots. "Do you really think we can fix these before the show?"

"Well, it's a bit up in the air," Bunsen said as he took out a pair of pliers. "Your doppelganger really did a number on these boots Saturday night."

Beaker's only answer was a small sigh. It was nothing compared to the number Bunsen had done on all of them. But now all the other Beakers were back to where they belonged, and so was he, Beaker Number 1, Bunsen's assistant Beaker.

Bunsen talked to himself as he worked on the boots, giving the wires little pet names as he maneuvered them. But the expression on his face was one of intense focus, as though there was nothing else in the world but the puzzle in front of him that needed to be solved.

Beaker let that face get away with an awful lot. For instance, right now, the way Bunsen was raising one boot up to inspect it, turning and twisting it, as if Beaker's leg wasn't attached. But Beaker just gripped the edges of the table to hold himself up and let Bunsen do what he needed to do.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Bunsen paused and turned his gaze to Beaker, examining him the same way he'd just been examining the boots. "Beakie, I hope I didn't ruin the rest of your visit with yourselves."

"No, I had a great time. All of me did." Now that Bunsen had let go of his ankle, he could sit up and rest his hands in his lap. "You know that idea I had for an Ode to Joy video? We tried it, and it actually worked. Except for when the metronome sped up and the wine glass broke and the violin caught fire and I got hit with a lamp and electrocuted." He shrugged. "It's a Beaker thing, I guess."

"It still sounds delightful," Bunsen smiled, leaving Beaker to ponder what exactly sounded so delightful about all that. "Did you tell all of your replicas I wished them bon voyage?"

"I did," Beaker said, not mentioning the fact that it had been part of his Bunsen impersonation over brunch that'd made them all crack up.

"Good, good. It really was lovely seeing so many of your face."

Before Beaker could respond to that - not that he knew how - Bunsen abruptly lifted one boot up to glasses-level, then the other one to compare, and Beaker had to catch himself before he was knocked onto his back.

"Oh dear," Bunsen muttered. "Perhaps I shouldn't have clipped that wire."

Beaker stared up at his bootprints on the ceiling, dread washing over him. "I have a bad feeling about the show this week."

"Nonsense. You say that every week."

Bunsen went back to his notes. Beaker had a hunch that the problem wasn't the wiring, but the alignment of the magnets, and he was dying to tell Bunsen to check on that. But there was something else he had to find out first.

"What makes you so sure I'm the original Beaker?" He sat up again, as straight as he could. "Maybe your assistant and I switched places. Maybe he decided Antarctica would be nice this time of year and ran off. How do you know?"

"Oh, don't be silly, Beaker. I just know."

"You just know?" Beaker watched him for a moment as he fiddled around with a tangle of wires. He chose his next words carefully. "That's not a very scientific answer, Dr. Honeydew."

That got his attention.

"Well," Bunsen cleared his throat. He made a bit of a show of setting aside his pliers and his notebook. "I can think of one way to collect some empirical data. But it's a very"- he flourished his fingers- "hands-on approach."

Beaker gulped audibly. What had he gotten himself into? "You mean - you don't mean - do you mean what I think you mean?"

"You can tell a lot from a kiss," Bunsen cut through Beaker's stammering. "You'll have to come closer, though."

This was a bad idea. Beaker knew it. But he was already sliding himself further to the edge of the table, where Bunsen was waiting. After all, what in the lab wasn't a bad idea? When had that ever stopped them before?

Bunsen placed his hands just above Beaker's waist, and Beaker suddenly forgot how to breathe. He had no idea what to do with his own hands. He was used to being totally at Bunsen's mercy with every experiment, but this was a completely different kind of vulnerability. Like falling out of the sky, only with no ground waiting below, so he'd keep on falling forever.

"Can't I at least get a mint or something first?" Beaker squeaked out. Still, he found himself leaning forward, the space between them narrowing. His whole body felt like a pounding heart.

"Oh, don't be so nervous, Beakie. This is just like any other experiment."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Beaker murmured, just before Bunsen closed all the way in.

Bunsen started with a light touch of his lips to Beaker's, like he was testing him, or maybe teasing him. Until Beaker couldn't take it anymore and pushed back hard. Bunsen made a noise of surprise against his mouth, and Beaker felt strangely proud of himself for getting that reaction out of him.

Feeling bolder now, he let his hands travel along the buttons on Bunsen's vest, up to his collar, making their way into the warmth of his lab coat. Everything was a soft heat under his fingers, and he couldn't get enough.

He nearly fell off the table when Bunsen pulled away - he wasn't ready to come back down to earth. In a daze, he reached his hand up to his mouth. His lips actually hurt from kissing Bunsen so hard. Did everything have to hurt with Bunsen?

With his heart still pounding madly, he waited for some conclusion to whatever research Bunsen had just conducted, some sense of what had just happened and where any of this was going.

Bunsen's lab coat was hanging off one shoulder, and he pulled it back up with a knowing smile. Then he touched his hand to Beaker's cheek. "There's only one you, Beakie."

Beaker let out the breath he'd been holding. Sometimes, Bunsen managed to say exactly the right thing.

Then Bunsen leaned in, not for another kiss, but so that his mouth hovered right by Beaker's ear. "I knew it was you the whole time at the punch bowl, too. I just wanted a little plausible deniability."

Beaker's mouth dropped open, and Bunsen snickered and pressed it closed. He traced his fingers along Beaker's perpetual frown. "You should've kept playing along."

"I was curious," Beaker admitted.

"Is your curiosity satisfied now?" The way Bunsen breathed that question into his ear made Beaker wonder, not for the first time, if Bunsen was actually trying to kill him.

Beaker curled his fists around the lapels of Bunsen's lab coat. "No."

"Good. A scientist's curiosity is never satisfied, is it, B-" 

Before Bunsen could finish his sentence, Beaker was already lunging at him, kissing him again. He slid off the table to get even closer, but when his feet hit the floor, he heard the distinct _crunch_ of the Anti-Gravity Boots breaking underneath him. He froze. "Oh no."

"Well. Now we've really got our work cut out for us, don't we?" Bunsen tutted. "And given how excruciatingly distracting you're being, I don't see how I'm going to get anything done. I can't kiss you and work at the same time. Unless..."

Bunsen pressed his hand to his chin. He tilted his head up at Beaker, and a devious gleam flashed in his glasses. "Unless I were to clone myself."

Beaker's eyes got impossibly wider with horror. One Bunsen was already too much to handle. "You wouldn't- _you wouldn't_ -"

But Bunsen just snickered and kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The amazingly talented Snufkuluf illustrated the punch bowl scene, and it's perfect - [check it out](https://apollohunt.tumblr.com/post/635968239840739328/redraw-of-a-scene-from-meep-myself-i)!


End file.
